


Patchwork Angel

by ClassicSapphic



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Discrimination Against Downworlders, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, The Circle won, Valentine won, War against Downworlders, Warlock Marks (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Warlock!Alec, Wingfic, seelie!Lydia, vampire!Isabelle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-04 13:14:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14021019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicSapphic/pseuds/ClassicSapphic
Summary: Valentine won. The Clave was destroyed, the Circle began a war against Downworlders, and Valentine continued his blood experiments on Shadowhunter children.Alec is one of his failures. As someone barely angel enough to accept runes and just demon enough to have a warlock mark, Alec knows that he's still alive only because his magic is occasionally useful. So he keeps his head down. He follows orders and kills Downworlders and hopes that it's enough to keep him and his siblings safe. It works.Until Magnus Bane crashes into his life and promptly ruins it all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to chipofftheoldsoul for beta reading this fic. I don't know what I'd do without you, hun.

“He’s too young,” Maryse insists for the third time. “What if they find out what he is? They’ll tear him apart!”

Valentine’s voice is as soothing and charming as ever. “We’re going to be nearby the entire time. And your boy is hardly defenseless. We’ve been training him for this war since he could walk.”

“He’s seven years old!” 

A few feet away, Robert Lightwood and half a dozen other Shadowhunters stare at the overcast sky or the yellow grass or the nearby pond and pretend that they’re deaf. A few times, Robert opens his mouth to say something, but no noise escapes his throat. This isn’t a disagreement that he wants to take sides in.

“Dad,” Alec whispers. He tugs on the sleeve of his father’s jacket to get his attention. “Dad, there’s _ducks._ ”

The corner of Robert’s lips pulls up. It’s almost a smile. “Is there?” he asks in the same hushed tone, as if they’re sharing a secret.

“Yeah.” Alec grips Robert’s hand in both of his and leans into Robert’s side. He’s intently focused on the nearby pond.

Robert gently brushes his thumb back and forth across the back of Alec’s hand. “How many do you think there are?”

Alec’s nose crinkles as he concentrates. He mouths _one, two, three_ as he starts to count them. After ten seconds of intense deliberation, he looks up at Robert and declares, “Two million.”

“Two million?” Robert echoes with exaggerated disbelief.

“Yup.” Alec grins and looks back at the pond.

“That’s a lot of ducks.”

“Uh-huh,” Alec says. He digs the toe of his shoe into the dirt. The wings at his back hesitantly stretch out until the wind snags at his feathers. “They’re like me.”

Robert’s smile feels like stone. His thumb stops.

Just in front of them, Maryse hisses, “You’ve already turned my son into a—into _that._ I’m not letting you risk his life too.”

Valentine’s response is too quiet to hear. Robert can only make out his calming, gentle tone.

Maryse erupts. “If I’d known that your experiments would turn my children into Downworlders—"

“They’re still Nephilim, Maryse. They have runes.”

“My daughter drinks blood!”

Robert squeezes Alec’s hands to turn his attention away from the argument. “Yes,” Robert says. He looks at Alec’s shoulder to avoid staring at the obsidian black feathers that grow from his son’s back. “You have wings too. Just like the ducks.”

Maybe he should walk Alec down to the pond, at least until Maryse’s yelling stops. Alec would like to get a better look at the ducks.

But the argument abruptly ends. Maryse’s arms are crossed and her jaw is clenched, but she’s given up for now. Valentine’s won this round.

Somehow, he always manages to win.

Valentine turns and his eyes immediately drop to Alec. Robert fights down the instinct to step in front of his son.

“Alec,” Valentine says.

Alec drops Robert’s hand. He stands straight, chin up, with the perfect posture of a soldier waiting for orders. Valentine smiles, pleased. Robert feels nauseous.

“You remember what we talked about earlier?” Valentine asks.

Alec falters. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “I—I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Just try.”

Alec mumbles, “Okay.” He holds his hands out in front of him. Silver light starts to gather at his fingertips.

Maryse looks away. The other Shadowhunters step back. Even Robert has to plant his feet to stop himself from moving. Despite knowing that this is his son and he poses no threat, the sight of magic still sends a tremor up Robert’s spine.

Alec bites his lip. His nose scrunches up again, like it did when he was counting the ducks. After a minute or two, Alec sighs and drops his hands. “I can’t do it.”

Valentine takes a step forward.

Alec tenses. His whole body is still and solid except for his wings, which twitch just enough to be noticeable. Robert can’t tell if Alec’s shaking or if the wind is just ruffling his feathers. He chooses to believe the latter.

“Try again, Alec,” Valentine says.

“I can’t.”

“Alexander.” Valentine enunciates the name slowly, giving sharpness to every syllable. “Try again.”

Alec hesitates for only a moment. Then he raises his arms again, shuffles his feet a little, and lets magic gather at his hands once more. He squeezes his eyes shut.

A minute passes. Alec’s breathing becomes fast and shallow and the silver light at his hands grows brighter. Finally, the deflect rune on Alec’s neck starts to fade. It gets lighter and lighter until it disappears entirely.

Alec has never had a firm grasp on his magic. The only thing he can do consistently is glamour his wings, and that took years of practice. He has never glamoured his runes before.

Robert has to close his eyes for a moment. It’s unnerving to see his son like this, with his angelic markings gone but the side effect of Valentine’s blood experiments still clearly visible. He looks like a warlock.

“Perfect,” Valentine says. Alec’s still panting lightly from the exertion of performing an unfamiliar spell. “Now for the hard part.”

 

Ragnor Fell hates the city. He hates the noise and the lights and, most of all, the people. If he had his way, he would live as a hermit on the other side of the world. He would be doing that right now, if a zealous Shadowhunter hadn’t overthrown the Clave and begun a genocidal war against Downworlders.

As it turns out, it’s hard to live quietly when there’s a worldwide organization of people who want to kill you on sight. The only way to survive is to keep moving. Ragnor spends his days traveling from country to country, overcrowded city to horrifically overcrowded city, mostly hiding but helping where he can. Everyone could use wards in the middle of a war.

Ragnor is walking down the streets of San Francisco, trekking the mundane way from one Downworlder safehouse to another, when he sees the kid. He’s young, far too young to be wandering alone, and he doesn’t have a glamour hiding his warlock mark. His black feathered wings are visible to anyone with the Sight, including any Shadowhunters that may come across him. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t been killed yet.

Ragnor pauses in the middle of the street. “It’s not your problem, Fell,” he mutters to himself. “Just keep walking.” But he doesn’t.

The kid keeps his wings wrapped around himself in a feathery self-hug. He wanders down the street with no intent or purpose, like he has no idea where he’s going or what he’s supposed to be doing. He looks lost. Lost and scared. He may be recently abandoned—warlocks rarely have happy home lives—or his mother could have been killed. People die left and right these days, and the Shadow World has more orphans than anyone knows what to do with.

Ragnor sighs. He can’t just leave. Dammit.

He walks up to the kid and crouches down to get eye-level with him. “Are you lost?”

The kid stares at him, wide-eyed, and pulls his wings in tighter around him.

Shit. How are you supposed to talk to children? Ragnor can barely handle adults.

“It’s okay,” Ragnor says, speaking soft and even, the way one might talk to a frightened animal. “We’re the same.” With a snap of his fingers, Ragnor drops his glamour so the kid can see his horns.

He expects the kid to relax, to realize that he’s safe with one of his own kind. Instead, the boy flinches and takes two quick steps back. He looks over his shoulder, like he’s checking for an escape route in case he needs to run.

Ragnor frowns. “Have you never seen another warlock before?”

The kid’s nervous silence is answer enough. He wrings his hands in front of him. His eyes flicker from Ragnor’s horns to a point beyond Ragnor’s shoulder.

“Do you have anywhere to go?” Ragnor asks.

Silence.

“Where’s your mother?”

More silence.

Ragnor sighs. “Do you talk at all?”

“No.”

Ragnor snorts. He hasn’t heard someone pack so much sarcasm into one word since the last time he spoke to Magnus. At least the kid has a personality under all that trepidation.

But they can only spend so much time unglamoured in the middle of a busy city street before a Shadowhunter finds them. He pushes himself to his feet and holds out his hand. “Come along,” he says. “It’s dangerous out here. I can take you somewhere safe.”

The kid considers Ragnor’s hand for a few seconds, then reluctantly reaches out to take it.

“I’m Ragnor. Are you going to tell me your name?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought. Let’s go, little bird.”

 

The next safehouse that Ragnor stops at is on the third floor of an average sized apartment building. It includes every apartment on the floor and is currently home to two families of werewolves and the last six members of what was once San Francisco’s largest vampire clan.

Ragnor works out a quick deal with them. He’ll strengthen the wards around the building and they’ll let him and the kid spend the night in the empty unit at the end of the hall. The kid is plastered to Ragnor’s side through the entire negotiation, his little fingers wrapped around Ragnor’s hand and his eyes narrowed suspiciously at the other Downworlders. He doesn’t relax until Ragnor’s ushered him into their temporary apartment and closed the door behind him.

“Have you ever put up wards before?” Ragnor asks.

The boy shrugs. “I’ve taken them down.”

It’s the longest sentence that Ragnor’s heard the kid say and, of course, it only confuses him more. Everything that the boy says creates more questions. Why would a child need to take down someone’s wards? Why was he on his own in the middle of the streets? Why is he so afraid of his own people?

Ragnor doesn’t ask these questions. The boy will speak when he’s ready. Hopefully. Instead he asks, “Do you want to help me put them up, little bird?”

That leads into a whole magic lesson. What few spells that the kid can perform are obviously self-taught, with none of the technique nor the control that comes with proper training. Ragnor handles the wards himself and gives the kid something simple to do. In one of the kitchen cupboards, he finds an old plastic cup, and he tells the kid to try to change its color.

He can’t.

That isn’t surprising, some warlocks take more time to get the basics down. It doesn’t matter. Time doesn’t mean anything when you have centuries ahead of you.

But the boy quickly becomes frustrated when he can’t perform the spell right away. After his fourth failed attempt, Ragnor notices that his fingers are trembling and he’s pulled in his wings tight against his back.

Ragnor sits cross-legged on the floor across from the kid and the cup and says, “This one took me a while to get down too. I didn’t expect you to get it on your first try.”

The boy glances up at Ragnor.

Ragnor freezes. That’s not a face of frustration. That’s fear. The kid’s terrified.

Ragnor instinctively reaches for the kid’s shoulder. “It’s okay, you’re—”

When he sees Ragnor’s hand moving toward him, the boy jerks back. A choked cry escapes his clenched teeth. He pulls his legs up to his chest and buries his head against his knees. His wings are folded in as close against his back as he can get them.

He’s making himself a smaller target to hit.

Ragnor quickly retracts his hand. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Oh, little bird.”

He suddenly remembers another warlock child from half a century ago. She’d been imprisoned by her mother and used for her magic for the first twelve years of her life. When Ragnor and Catarina had finally managed to get her out of that house, she’d been terrified of everything. She rarely spoke. She flinched away from new people. She expected to be hit every time her magic didn’t work properly.

Ragnor doesn’t know what happened to this boy. But he’s seen the result of sustained abuse before. He cautiously says, “I’m not… It’s okay, little bird. I won’t hurt you. No one’s going to hurt you.”

The boy doesn’t move except for a faint tremor in his shoulders and along his wings.

Ragnor feels sick. He’s furious and horrified and he doesn’t know what to do. The kid definitely doesn’t want to be touched right now and Ragnor doesn’t want to scare him by moving again. So he gathers together every ounce of patience that his long life has granted him with and he waits.

Long minutes pass. The boy doesn’t cry. He doesn’t make a sound. He just holds himself in a tight little ball and shakes.

Ragnor releases a long sigh through his nose. “Little bird?”

The boy stops shaking. He hasn’t calmed completely. But he’s listening.

Ragnor plucks the cup up from the ground. “Let’s put this away. You can try again later if you want. Okay?”

The boy doesn’t move.

Ragnor gets to his feet. He moves slowly but not quietly, so that the kid can hear his progress as he moves across the room to return the cup to the cupboard.

When he turns around again, the boy is on his feet. He’s pulled his wings around himself and he’s looking studiously at the floor. His eyes are red.

Ragnor leans against the kitchen counter. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The kid shakes his head.

“Okay,” Ragnor says. He checks his pocket watch and is a little surprised to see that it’s past nine o’clock. “Let’s get you to bed. We can figure out what we’re doing in the morning, okay?”

Ragnor doesn’t have a lot of magic left after strengthening the building’s wards, but he manages to conjure a pair of pajamas for the kid. He lets the boy have the only bedroom and resigns himself to a long night on the ratty couch.

But first he calls an old friend.

He’s greeted with a cheery, “ _My dear cabbage! To what do I owe the pleasure?_ ”

Ragnor gets right to the point. “I found an abused warlock kid and I have no idea what to do.”

The other end of the line is silent.

 _“Right,”_ Magnus eventually says. He sounds drained to the point of exhaustion. This war has taken too much from him—from all of them. _“It’s going to be one of those conversations. Have you called Catarina? She could take them in.”_

“No,” Ragnor quickly says. “No, I don’t want… I can look after him. That’s not the problem. I just need to know what happened to him so I can take care of him.” He doesn’t want to accidently scare the kid again. If he knew what the kid went through, he could avoid putting him into those kinds of situations again. “Have you heard anything about a warlock boy with black wings in San Francisco?”

They have a long and rambling conversation which amounts to almost nothing. Magnus hasn’t heard anything about the kid. He says that he’ll look into it, but Ragnor knows that he’s already driving himself to exhaustion trying to keep the Downworlders in Brooklyn safe. He’s only going to learn about the boy’s past when the kid chooses to talk about it himself.

Magnus, of course, teases him about getting attached so quickly ( _“Little bird? I’ve known you for centuries, dear cabbage, and you still don’t have a nickname for me.”_ ). He also manages to get Ragnor to agree to visit him in Brooklyn soon. By the time he hangs up, it’s long past midnight and Ragnor’s almost happy to collapse onto the lumpy couch and finally get some sleep.

 

Ragnor blinks awake in the pale dawn light. At first he doesn’t know what woke him up. Then he feels it. The wards that he put up last night are gone.

Moments later, he hears the werewolves screaming next door.

They’re being attacked.

Ragnor jumps to his feet, his movements jerky and uncoordinated in his exhaustion. He throws a flimsy ward up against the front door. It won’t hold for long, but he has no time to make something stronger. He starts to make a portal. Then he remembers the kid.

“Little bird!” he calls. He stumbles toward the bedroom. The door is open and the kid’s standing just outside of it. “We have to go, little bird, there’s—”

He stops.

In the faint light, he can see the dark lines of a Shadowhunter’s rune sweeping down the kid’s neck. He doesn’t have time to freeze like this, but he still wastes a few precious seconds just staring. His gaze flickers from the rune to the kid’s warlock mark and back again.

Every Downworlder has heard of Valentine’s blood experiments. But they were just stories. Rumors. Things that people whispered around campfires at night. Not even Valentine could go that far.

But the proof is right in front of him. And suddenly everything that the boy’s done makes sense, from refusing to give his name to being so afraid when he first saw Ragnor’s horns. And—

_Have you ever put up wards before?_

_I’ve taken them down._

And wards were so much easier to destroy from the inside.

“You didn’t,” Ragnor says, his voice hollow. “Oh, little bird, tell me that you didn’t.”

In the apartment next door, a child’s loud wailing is suddenly cut off. The people that he’s supposed to protect are dying. If he were braver or stupider, he’d be running to help. But Ragnor knows his limits. He’s never excelled at combat magic and he’s no match for whatever team of Shadowhunters this boy has just let in.

The kid doesn’t look at him. He stares at the floor by Ragnor’s feet. He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out.

He needs to escape before they break through the door.

Ragnor waves a careless hand and a portal to Magnus’ lair opens up in front of him. He takes a step forward. He stops.

“Oh, dammit,” Ragnor mutters. How did he survive this long with such a soft heart? He turns around and holds his hand out. “Come along, little bird. It’s time to go.”

The boy’s wide eyes jerk up to meet Ragnor’s. “What?” he asks, soft and disbelieving.

“Come on,” Ragnor says, waving his hand more urgently now. “That door won’t hold. We need to go.”

Still the kid hesitates, his wings shifting anxiously. “Why? I just—I—”

 _Because you’re either a terribly good actor or someone’s actually hurting you,_ Ragnor doesn’t say. _How could I leave you?_

Ragnor says, “Please take my hand.”

The kid stares at him for a long moment. He starts to reach forward.

The front door crashes open.

Ragnor doesn’t have time to grab the kid and pull them both through the portal. He throws a wave of magic at the door, and it knocks back one Shadowhunter, but two more duck under the blast and enter the apartment.

Ragnor waves away the portal. He can’t risk Magnus.

The Shadowhunters split up, one approaching from the left and another from the right. The man on the right walks cautiously and holds his seraph blade at the ready. His eyes flicker nervously between Ragnor and the kid. The man on the left is Valentine. He’s splattered with blood—not his own—and his grin is sharp and victorious.

Ragnor takes a quick step back. He makes sure that he’s standing between Valentine and the boy.

Valentine’s blade is held loosely at his side, almost as if he’s forgotten that he’s holding it. “Ragnor Fell,” he says. He speaks as if they’re having a pleasant conversation, as if they’re not holding weapons that they intend to use. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Ragnor nods, but he’s only half paying attention. While Valentine stands back and talks, the other Shadowhunter is still slowly creeping toward him. “Valentine Morgenstern. I’ve been avoiding you.”

Valentine almost laughs. “Not well enough, it seems.”

“We all have off days.”

He’s not going to survive this. The thought comes to him suddenly and without warning, but when it comes, he can’t shake it. Greater people have come up against Valentine and lost. Why should he expect this to end any different?

He’s going to die here.

The Shadowhunter at his right bends down a little and holds out his free hand. “Alec, get over here,” he says. His eyes are familiar. They’re similar to the kid’s.

“You’re his father?” Ragnor asks, his attention suddenly diverted from Valentine.

The man’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look away from the kid. Of course. What’s the point in acknowledging a lowly Downworlder?

Cold anger starts to form in Ragnor’s chest. “Are you the one who hits him?”

The man looks at him now, absolutely scandalized. “I wouldn’t—no one has _ever_ —”

But Ragnor is so old and so tired and cannot deal with this bullshit for another second. “Then you’re either blind or ignorant,” he snaps. “But that’s a step up from abusive. Congratulations. You’re not as barbaric as I thought you were.”

The man flinches. He glances at Valentine, for guidance or instruction or any kind of support, but Valentine’s attention is elsewhere. He ignores Ragnor and turns back to the kid. “Alec, we’re leaving,” he says. “Come on.”

The boy doesn’t move.

“ _Alec_.”

“Go on, little bird,” Ragnor says. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you from this.” But maybe Magnus could. Every other Downworlder who’d seen the kid was dead, and Ragnor would soon join them, but Magnus had his description. If he ever saw the kid, he might be able to help.

It was all up to Magnus now.

Slowly, the kid moves toward his father.

With that settled, Ragnor turns his attention back to Valentine, who is now much closer. They both know how this is going to end. Ragnor still looks him dead in the eye and says, “I’m dragging you to hell with me.”

Valentine tilts his head to the side, amused. “If you wanted to do that,” he says, “then you shouldn’t have gotten so attached.”

And then the tip of Valentine’s sword races straight for his little bird’s throat.

Ragnor doesn’t have time to think. He can’t cast a spell or deflect the blade. He can only lunge to the side.

Valentine’s seraph blade goes right between his ribs.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented and kudos'd the last chapter! I hope that this one was worth the wait.

“Is this it?” Jonathan Morgenstern asks. His gaze is focused on a warehouse a few dozen feet ahead of them, nearly identical to the other five warehouses that are scattered around the tarmac. He tilts his head to the side like a bloodhound catching a new scent. “It doesn’t look like much.”

Jace puts his hands in his pockets and kicks a rock across the dry pavement. “Maybe Bane took down the neon sign when the genocidal war started,” he says. He takes an exaggerated running start and kicks a second rock much harder. This one sails through the air and, in the middle of its arc, hits an invisible barrier. It makes a sudden _crack_ like the snap of electricity and falls back at Jace’s feet, charred and smoking.

Jace whistles. “Yup. I’m sure it’s nothing. False alarm. Let’s go look for the High Warlock’s lair somewhere else, because this place is obviously empty.”

Alec winces.

Jonathan looks at Jace with a frigid and longsuffering anger. They’ve despised each other since they were children. Jace was too sarcastic and Jonathan too condescending and they both competed for Valentine’s sporadic and manipulative affection. Over the years, their hatred has simmered and built toward an inevitable eruption.

Alec is terrified that they are going to kill each other. One day, one of them is going to go too far and the other one is going to snap and they’re not going to stop until one of them is no longer breathing. Alec doesn’t know if Jace will win that fight. The only thing he can do is try to delay it.

“I’ll get started on the wards,” Alec says.

Jonathan’s attention turns to him. Alec feels like he’s being looked through instead of looked at, like Jonathan’s already evaluated and dismissed him. “You do that, warlock,” he says. Then he turns to address the group of Shadowhunters gathered behind them.

Jace steps forward, his eyes flashing. “He’s not a—”

Alec grabs his arm and pulls him back. “It’s not worth it,” he says, his voice low so Jonathan can’t hear him.

Jace doesn’t look at him. His furious gaze is locked on Jonathan. “He’s been walking over you since we were kids. You can’t keep letting it go.”

“He’s irritating because he knows that it makes you mad,” Alec says. “I don’t care what he says, Jace. Just ignore him.”

“If he said something about Izzy, you’d be the first person to deck him.”

“But he didn’t.” He gently pushes Jace toward the assembled Shadowhunters. “Get into position. I’m gonna take down the wards.”

Jace looks like he wants to argue. But Alec shoves him again, more insistently this time, and Jace reluctantly walks toward the group.

Jonathan is just finishing up whatever pithy speech he was giving to the team. “Go for the warlocks first to stop them from opening portals for the others,” he says. “Nothing leaves that lair alive.”

Of course. Like most of the missions that Jonathan leads, this is going to be a slaughter.

Alec pushes the thought to the back of his mind and turns to the wards. His hands light up silver, the magic uncomfortably hot against his skin, as he probes the barrier.

Bane’s wards are the most intricate he’s ever come across, strengthened through years of careful and tedious work. Alec can’t find a single seam or rough edge. Bane has woven a tapestry out of magic, and Alec almost feels guilty for destroying it.

He doesn’t hear any footsteps, but he suddenly feels that someone is standing too close behind him. It makes his skin crawl. “What do you want, Jonathan?”

“What’s taking so long? You can usually shatter these things in seconds.”

“Bane’s been hiding here for decades. I’ve never destroyed wards this strong before.” Alec glances up at the warehouse.

There must be dozens of Downworlders in Bane’s lair, all of them civilians. Everyone knows that Bane doesn’t deal with soldiers. He hides families, helps Downworlders move safely through the city. If Alec breaks the wards right away, then they’re all dead. But if he delays the process, then Bane may notice that someone’s fiddling with his wards. He’ll have time to evacuate his people. No one has to die today.

“It’ll take me longer than usual,” Alec says. “It could be a couple hours.”

When Jonathan doesn’t start arguing, Alec thinks that he’s gotten away with the lie. He just needs to spend a few hours poking at Bane’s wards and hope that Bane notices. But Jonathan doesn’t move back to the group.

Alec shifts uncomfortably. “What?”

“Why are you stalling?”

Alec’s magic flickers. “I’m not.”

Jonathan comes a half step closer. His voice drops to a murmur. “Let’s not play this game again, warlock. You never win.”

Alec takes a deep breath. He starts to carefully unravel Bane’s wards, piece by piece, thread by thread. Destroying the wards really will take hours if he unwinds them instead of ripping through them as he normally does. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a horrible liar. Always have been,” Jonathan says. “I don’t know how Branwell and your bloodsucking little sister expect you to cover for them when they sneak out at night.”

Alec clenches his jaw. Fear starts to creep up his spine. “They’re adults. They can leave whenever they want.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Jonathan says. “Now, personally, I couldn’t care less about them. But the Circle? They’ve always been a bit homophobic.”

Alec accidently tears through a section of the wards. He fights to reign in his magic, but the more he tries to pull it back, the more it kicks against him.

“It’s part of their whole _we’re becoming a new master race_ rhetoric,” Jonathan continues. “Your sister will probably be fine. Her last name has kept her alive for this long, despite her antics. But Branwell?”

“Lydia’s a good soldier,” Alec says. He’s only half focused on his words. His magic is glowing brighter now, burning hotter. He can barely hold it in. “The Circle wouldn’t execute her.”

“No, of course not. Execution’s too public,” Jonathan says. “They’ll set up a little accident for her. A patrol gone wrong, maybe. It’s easy enough to stage a werewolf attack. Horribly messy, though. Little Isabelle might have to spend a few days in the morgue piecing her girlfriend back together.”

Bane’s wards splinter with a burst of light and the sound of a shattering chandelier.

Alec blinks. He hadn’t meant to do that.

But Jonathan obviously had. And now dozens of people are going to die because Alec couldn’t keep his magic under control for five fucking minutes.

“Well, look at that,” Jonathan says. He unsheathes the seraph blade at his belt. “I knew you had it in you, warlock.”

Alec whirls around to face him. There’s nothing that he can do now for the people inside, but he can still keep Lydia safe. “If you tell _anyone_ about—”

“Relax,” Jonathan says. He’s leaning toward the warehouse, eager for the fight. “I won’t tell as long as you do your job. If you wanted to be a rebel, warlock, then you shouldn’t have gotten attached to things that die so easily.”

And then he takes off across the tarmac, the other Shadowhunters just behind him. Alec watches numbly as they pour through the front door of the warehouse. The screaming starts soon after.

“You didn’t take down the wards right away,” Jace says. He’s standing at Alec’s side, having stayed back when the others charged in after Jonathan. “I thought you were gonna give them time to run.”

“That was the plan.”

“Jonathan got to you?”

Alec releases a long breath through his nose.

“I could kill him for you,” Jace says. He’s not kidding.

“Jonathan would decapitate you.”

Jace knocks his shoulder against Alec’s. “You have such little faith in me.”

A woman in the warehouse suddenly screeches, her voice louder than the others. It echoes along the other buildings and then cuts off abruptly.

Alec swallows. “We should probably…”

“Yeah,” Jace says, his voice soft and subdued. They walk across the tarmac, neither of them in any particular rush, and enter the warehouse.

What was once Bane’s lair is now a battlefield. Couches are turned over, blood is staining into exposed brick pillars, and there are already a few bodies on the floor. The dead are all Downworlders. They never stood a chance against trained soldiers.

The fighting is focused in the center of the room. Alec can see flashes of fur and fangs and claws and glowing seraph blades. It’s a bloodbath.

Alec takes his bow off of his shoulder and strings an arrow through it. He scans the battle, draws back his bow, and fires. He hits a werewolf through the leg, staggering her long enough for another Shadowhunter to cut her down.

Jace knocks his elbow against Alec’s. He jerks his head toward something on the left side of the room.

A Downworlder is staggering out of the fight. One of his arms is held tight around his ribs. When he gets to the edge of the room, he turns to look over the battlefield and Alec finally gets a good look at his face. The man has dramatic eye make-up, an absurd amount of glitter in his hair, and molten gold eyes with slit pupils.

Alec’s never seen a warlock with cat eyes before.

Cat Eyes calls something—a word? a name?—but his voice is lost in the chaos. He stands there for another few seconds, searching through the faces in the roiling crowd. Then he ducks through a hallway at the back of the room.

Jace takes off after Cat Eyes, circling the battle until he gets to the hallway. Alec follows just behind him. They both pause at the entrance to the hall. Jace looks down it while Alec pulls out another arrow.

“What’s he doing?” Alec asks.

A vampire at the edge of the crowd sees them. He snarls, fangs flashing, and starts to run at them.

Alec puts an arrow through his neck before he can take more than two steps. It staggers him but doesn’t kill him. He’s drawn back into the battle when a Shadowhunter tries to stab him through the heart.

Jace, oblivious to the fight happening behind him, shrugs. “I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I think he’s looking for someone,” he says as they watch Cat Eyes run from door to door. He tugs at Alec’s arm. “He just went around the corner. Come on.”

They move quickly down the hallway, their Soundless runes silencing their footsteps. The noise of the battle fades into the background as they go, but it never disappears entirely. There’s a trail of blood across the floor.

“How badly is he hurt?” Alec asks. His whisper sounds almost loud here.

Jace shrugs. “I saw Jonathan get a good hit in,” he says, “but I don’t know how bad it is.”

Jace peeks around the corner that Cat Eyes disappeared around. He readjusts his grip on his seraph blade and walks out into the open. Alec follows right behind him.

Cat Eyes doesn’t notice them. He’s looking through the third door on the left side of the hall.

“Madzie,” he hisses, his voice quiet but urgent. “Madzie, come on. We need to go.” He stands in the doorway for a moment, scanning the room, before he decides that this Madzie isn’t there. He turns to the next door down the hall.

While his back is turned, Alec draws back his bow. He aims for Cat Eyes’ back, an inch to the left of his spine, where the arrow can pierce his heart and lungs in one shot. It’s the quickest death that Alec can give him.

He fires.

Cat Eyes whirls around when he hears the shot. He swipes a glowing hand through the air and his magic knocks Alec’s arrow from the air. It falls harmlessly to the ground at Cat Eyes’ feet.

Alec holds in a sigh. He didn’t expect a warlock to go down so easily, but he was hoping. He could’ve at least made it fast. Now there was no telling how this would end.

Cat Eyes glares at them and adjusts his stance. One of his hands glows bright with magic. The other is pressed tight against his side, where his jacket is wet and dripping scarlet. A warlock at full power is a threat that even Jace would hesitate to take on, but Cat Eyes looks like he’s barely staying upright.

Jace walks forward, his blade held defensively in front of him. Alec takes another arrow from his quiver and draws back his bow, but he doesn’t fire yet. He stays back. He watches as Cat Eyes glances back and forth between them, trying to determine which of them is more dangerous. His gaze settles on Jace.

Cat Eyes can only cast with one hand, so his powers are limited. Alec is almost impressed by the ball of fire that he manages to conjure. He’s less impressed when Cat Eyes aims it at Jace’s head.

Alec lets his arrow fly.

Jace rolls easily under the fire ball. He jumps to his feet, sword up, within striking range of Cat Eyes.

Cat Eyes has more trouble with this arrow, but he manages to throw up a flimsy wall of magic in front of him. Alec’s arrow cracks the barrier. The edge of Jace’s sword shatters it entirely.

While Alec pulls out another arrow, Jace stabs forward again.

Cat Eyes jumps back, barely avoiding Jace’s blade. He loses his footing. Cat Eyes collapses against the wall, his eyes screwed shut in pain, his knees trembling with the effort of keeping himself on his feet. The magic glowing at his fist begins to flicker.

Alec starts to creep forward, his bow still drawn.

Jace circles around the warlock, cutting off his escape further down the hallway. If he wants to run now, he’ll have to go through one of them.

Cat Eyes twists to keep Jace in his line of sight. He still leans back against the wall, now unable to support his own weight. The blood slipping through his fingers is beginning to puddle at his feet. But he still raises a trembling hand that weakly sparks with magic.

Jace glances at Alec. He can feel the choking weight of Jace’s guilt through the _parabatai_ bond. Alec has gotten used to this—murder is simple once you have the mechanics of it down—but Jace still hesitates. He doesn’t want to do it.

Jace sighs. His shoulders roll forward and the tip of his blade drops a few inches. “I’m sorry,” he tells Cat Eyes, his voice rough and sad and so, so tired.

Cat Eyes stares at Jace, his eyebrow pulled together in confusion.

Jace pulls himself together. He stands a little straighter. His sword raises until the gleaming point of it is level with the warlock’s neck. “I promise that I’ll make it quick.”

Cat Eyes blinks. Then he huffs an exhausted, disbelieving laugh. He grins at Jace and there’s blood on his bared teeth. “Oh, fuck you.”

Cat Eyes throws both of his hands forward and a blast of strong, burning magic follows. Jace yells and stumbles back, one arm raised to protect his face from the blast.

Panic sears Alec’s veins. “ _Jace!_ ”

He releases the draw string on his bow. His arrow flies straight for Cat Eyes’ chest, but Cat Eyes waves a hand and easily knocks it from the air.

Alec’s seen this before. Sometimes, when warlocks are cornered and know that they’re going to die anyway, they pull together every scrap of power they have and take as many people down with them as they can. Cat Eyes will only be able to keep this up for half a minute, but that’s more than enough time to kill them both.

Alec drops his bow; arrows can’t save them now. But there’s something buzzing under Alec’s skin that can.

Cat Eyes turns to face Alec, his eyes flashing as bright as the magic at his fingertips. He raises his hands.

Alec is faster.

He doesn’t know exactly what he does. He’s aware of that snarling, unpredictable power that lives behind his ribs. He throws his hands forward, copying Cat Eyes’ motion, and stops holding it back. His hands burn like he’s thrown them into the licking flames of a bonfire. Silver explodes in front of his face, blinding him. It’s there, and bright, and _hurts_ , and then it’s gone.

Alec blinks hard. He gasps for breath that he didn’t realize he needed. His bones feel heavier and the floor spins lazily under his feet. He looks up.

Cat Eyes is on the ground. Behind him, Jace is pulling himself to his feet. The sleeve of his shirt from his wrist to his elbow is scorched and the skin of his arm is red and cracking. It doesn’t look good, but it’s nothing that an _iratze_ and a few hours won’t fix.

“You okay?” Alec asks, just to be sure.

“Yeah,” Jace says. He takes a sharp breath in through his teeth and holds his burnt arm against his chest. “I’ve been worse. Are you—?”

“I’ve been worse,” Alec echoes. Fatigue settles behind his eyes. He’d kill for a nap.

Cat Eyes tries to pull himself up onto his elbows. He makes it halfway up and then collapses back down with a soft, pained sound.

Jace watches him warily. He slowly reaches down to pick up his seraph blade.

Alec stalks forward. He abandons his bow on the ground and unsheathes the short blade that’s strapped to his thigh.

“Alec,” Jace warns.

Alec ignores him. The warlock tried to kill his brother. Rage numbs his head and his heart.

Alec straddles the warlock’s torso and uses his knees to pin down Cat Eyes’ wrists. His magic is useless if he can’t move his hands to cast. Alec presses the edge of his knife against Cat Eyes’ throat. Normally he’d kill Cat Eyes right away, but he was searching for a friend and Alec wants to know what they’re dealing with.

“You came back here to find someone,” he says. “Who were you looking for?”

“My cat, obviously.” Cat Eyes halfheartedly tries to jerk one of his arms out from under Alec’s knee. He’s looking over Alec’s shoulder at the ceiling, as if he’s bored by this whole experience and doesn’t see Alec as a threat worthy of his attention.

Alec presses the knife down until he breaks skin.

Cat Eyes hisses in pain. When he finally focuses on Alec, hate burns in his demonic eyes.

“I can kill you fast or I can take my time,” Alec says. “Don’t be cute.”

“Well, now you’re just asking for the impossible.”

Jace snorts. Alec glares at him and Jace shrugs back, unrepentant.

Alec takes a breath, ready to ask again. But he’s interrupted by a slightly muffled, angry meow. It’s coming from the door directly to their right.

Alec blinks. “By the Angel,” he says, “if you seriously risked your life to go get your cat—”

But Cat Eyes squirms. He’s trying to hide it, but he’s too anxious for it to just be a cat.

“Careful, Jace,” Alec says.

Jace’s hand is already on the doorknob. “I’m always careful,” he says. It’s the biggest lie that Alec’s heard all year. Then he pulls open the door, his seraph blade held ready in his free hand.

Jace flinches. His body is blocking the open door. When Alec tilts his head back to see through, he can only make out the narrow, shelf-lined walls of a storage closet.

“Oh, shit,” Jace says. He steps to the side before Alec can ask what it is.

There’s a little girl, no more than four or five years old, sitting in the back corner of the closet. She’s holding a squirming cat against her chest. Her terrified eyes are locked on Jace’s blade.

She’s the one with gills on her neck, but Alec feels like the monster.

“Please don’t hurt her,” Cat Eyes begs. All the flippancy has vanished from his voice. “Kill me, I don’t care, but please don’t hurt her.”

Jace looks to Alec, for direction or support, but Alec is as lost as he is. They’ve been active participants in exterminations missions like this one since they were fifteen. But they’ve never had to kill a kid before. There was always someone else, someone quicker or crueler or number, who did it before they had to.

Jace fiddles with his sword. The girl flinches back when the blade moves. She pushes herself further into the corner, pulls the cat in tighter against her.

Cat Eyes must realize that his begging isn’t doing anything, because he suddenly thrashes against Alec’s hold, desperately trying to escape. Alec barely notices. Cat Eyes is weak from losing blood and overexerting his magic. There’s nothing that he can do.

“If I don’t do it,” Jace says, “then Jonathan will.”

Alec nods slowly. He doesn’t know what Jace is getting at.

Jace swallows. “Jonathan won’t… He doesn’t kill quickly.”

Nausea begins to build in Alec’s stomach. Jace is trying to talk himself into killing a child. But he’s right. If Jonathan finds this kid, he’ll tear her apart. At least Jace will be fast. Painless.

A soft, frightened whimper slips past the girl’s lips. She’s starting to realize what’s about to happen.

Cat Eyes starts babbling soft, rambling phrases to the girl. Alec hears, “You’re going to be fine, sweet pea,” and “Just close your eyes, Madzie, everything’s going to be okay.”

Jace turns back to the girl. He takes a deep breath. He starts to raise his blade.

And Alec realizes that this is it. After everything that Jace has survived—a childhood of neglect and abuse, Valentine’s training, killing for a cause that he doesn’t believe in, and years of nightmares—this is what will destroy him. Jace will never forgive himself for this moment.

Jace’s sword is level with the girl’s chest. The blade trembles in his hands.

“Wait.”

Time stops.

All eyes turn to Alec.

“Jace,” he says, a half-assed plan starting to form in his mind, “go check the end of the hall.”

Jace doesn’t move. “I’m not letting you do this for me, Alec.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Alec removes his short blade from Cat Eyes’ throat and sheathes it. He pushes himself to his feet, leaving Cat Eyes free.

Cat Eyes scrambles to sit up, but he makes no move to get to his feet. He just stares at Alec, suspicious but desperately hoping.

“Jace, go watch the hall, and tell me if you see someone coming,” Alec says.

Jace stares at Alec for a long second. A hint of a grin starts to cross his face. “Are we committing treason?”

“Don’t sound excited.” Alec feels a rush of anxiety just thinking about it. This is the stupidest thing he’s ever done. Taking down wards slowly is one thing—no one can prove that he’s doing it—but helping Downworlders escape? If they get caught, they’re all dead. “Go. Watch. Now.”

“Izzy’s gonna be so proud of you,” Jace says with his stupid, overeager grin. Then he dashes to the end of the hall.

Cat Eyes blinks. “What just happened?”

“We made a new plan,” Alec says. He holds out his hand to the warlock.

Cat Eyes stares at it apprehensively. “Am I going to like this plan?”

“It involves letting you and the kid live.”

Cat Eyes hesitates for another second. When he looks back up at Alec, his eyes are glamoured into something dark brown and human. “Sounds like a good plan,” he says and he takes Alec’s hand.


End file.
